“I have come to prefer peace, if you must know, if you must have reason for all things. Besides, the court is not gay these days. And I am reminded there of what it might be; of what you might make it if you had a spark of real spirit. There’s not one of them, not Buonterzo, nor Pandolfo, nor dal Verme, nor Appiano, who would not be Duke by now if he had the chance accorded to you by the people’s love.”
Bellarion marvelled to see him still curb himself before this display of shameless cupidity.
“The people’s love is mine, Bice, because the people believe me to be honest and loyal. That faith would leave them the moment I became a usurper, and I should have to rule by terror, with an iron hand, as—”
“So that you ruled …” she was interrupting him, when he swept on:
“I should be as detested as is Gian Maria today. I should have wars on my hands on every side, and the duchy would become a parade ground.”
“It was so in Gian Galeazzo’s early days. Yet upon that he built the greatness of Milan and his own. A nation prospers by victorious war.”
“Today Milan is impoverished. Gian Maria’s misrule has brought her down. However you squeeze her citizens, you cannot make them yield what they lack, the gold that will hire and furnish troops to defend her from a general attack. But for that, would Pandolfo and Buonterzo and the others have dared what they have dared? I have made you Countess of Biandrate, my lady, and you’ll rest content with that. My duty is to the son of the man to whom I owe all that I have.”
“Until that same son hires someone to murder you. What loyalty does he give you in return? How often has he not tried to shake you from the saddle?”
“I am not concerned so much with what he is as with what I am.”
“Shall I tell you what you are?” She leaned towards him, contempt and anger bringing ageing lines into her lovely white face.
“If it will ease you, lady, you may tell me what you think I am. A woman’s breath will neither make nor unmake me.”
“A fool, Facino!”
“My patience gives proof of that, I think. Do you thank God for it.”
And on that he wheeled and sauntered out of the long grey room.
She sat huddled in the chair, her elbows on her knees, her dark blue eyes on the flames that leapt about the great sizzling logs. After a while she spoke.
“Bellarion!”
There was no answer. She turned. The long, high-backed form on which he had sat over against the wall was vacant. The room was empty. She shrugged impatiently, and swung again to the fire.
“And he’s a fool, too. A blind fool,” she informed the flames.
It was dinnertime when they returned together. The table was spread, and the lackeys waited.
“When you have dined, madonna,” Facino quietly informed her, “you will prepare to leave. We return to Milan today.”
“Today!” There was dismay in her voice. “Oh! You do this to vex me, to assert your mastership. You …”
His raised hand interrupted her. It held a letter—a long parchment document. He dismissed the servants, then briefly told her his news.
There was trouble in Milan, dire trouble. Estorre Visconti, Bernabó’s bastard, together with young Giovanni Carlo, Bernabó’s grandson, were harassing the city in the Ghibelline interest. In a recent raid Estorre had fired the quarter about the Ticinese Gate. There was want in the city, and this added to insecurity was rendering the citizens mutinous. And now, to crown all, was news that, taking advantage of the distress and unrest, Ottone Buonterzo was raising an army to invade the duchy.
“It is Gabriello who writes, and in the Duke’s interest begs me to return immediately and take command.”
“Command!” She laughed. “And the faithful lackey runs to serve his master. You deserve that Buonterzo should whip you again as he whipped you a year ago. If he does, I have a notion who will be Duke of Milan. He’s a man, this Buonterzo.”
“When he’s Duke of Milan, Bice, I shall be dead,” said Facino, smiling. “So you may marry him then, become his duchess, and be taught how to behave to a husband. Call the servants, Bellarion.”
They dined in haste, a brooding silence presiding over the meal, and within an hour of dining they were ready to set out.
There was a mule litter for the Countess, horses for Facino and Bellarion, a half-dozen mounted grooms, and a score of lances to serve as escort. The company of a hundred Swiss, which Facino had taken with him to Abbiategrasso, were to follow on the morrow under their own captain, Werner von Stoffel, to guard the baggage which would be brought in bullock-carts.
But at the last moment Facino, who, since rising from table had worn a thoughtful, undecided air, drew Bellarion aside.
“Here’s a commission for you, boy,” he said, and drew a letter from his breast. “Take ten lances for escort, and ride hard for Genoa with this letter for Boucicault, who is Vicar there for the King of France. Deliver it in person, and at need supplement it. Listen: It is to request from him the hire of a thousand French lances. I have offered him a fair price in this letter. But he’s a greedy fellow, and may require more. You have authority, at need, to pledge my word for twice the sum stated. I am taking no risks this time with Buonterzo. But do not let Boucicault suspect that we are menaced, or he will adapt the price to our need. Let him suppose that I require the men for a punitive expedition against some of the rebellious Milanese fiefs.”
Bellarion asked a question or two, and
